


How to Disappear Completely

by lunar47



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunar47/pseuds/lunar47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Kara's imprisonment on New Caprica; Kara tries to regain control of her situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Disappear Completely

She sits quietly seething on the couch.

He’s sitting at the table to her right, relaxed, with his arms and ankles crossed. Not paying any particular attention to her he continues to prattle on about God and Elysium; quoting scriptures he has no business uttering.

She focuses on remaining absolutely still. So still that she feels a disconnect between her body and reality. Leoben’s voice is soft and low as it fills her ears; its cadence feeding her dissociative state. All she can feel is her anger burning up from her very core; anger for her situation, anger at him for keeping her like this, anger at herself for being so stupid as to get caught during the first week of the occupation.

Something in her snaps and she finds herself standing up and approaching him. His speech halts and he looks up at her questioningly, his head tilted slightly. She sees her hand smack his cheek before she even realizes what she’s doing.

His eyes go slack and the color drains a bit from his cheeks. He looks shocked for a change. She hadn’t acted up for quite a while. He was beginning to see a difference in her. This move was unexpected.

“Is something wrong Kara?”

Her body refuses to speak. She raises her hand to hit him again but he’s prepared this time. He grabs her arm and stands in the same motion. She’s forced backwards but recovers quickly. Wrenching her arm from his grip she steadies herself.

He’s looming above her, his face a bit flushed and all too human. She imagines synthetic blood cells streaming through the capillaries that warm his face. But the little details are what gets to her; the bob of his adam’s apple, the wayward hairs in his nose and around his eyebrows, the quiet rise and fall of his chest (since when do machines need to breathe?).

She wonders just how human he really is. She approaches slowly and he lets her, moving until the cloth of her shirt touches his and she can feel the heat from his skin. Looking up into his shadowed face she sees something akin to amusement flicker across his features. He’s waiting, ever patient, to see what she will do; to see how far she’ll go.

Her body is tense and the anger hasn’t abated, only transformed into something far sicker. She’s attracted to him in the worst sense of the word. He knows her, intimately, when she had been so careful to make sure that no one really knew her. She needs that power back; to devour it would make her whole again. Or so she thought.

In an instant she knows what she’s going to do. She knows that it’s going to be painful, for both of them. It’s the only way she knows how to gain stability.

She starts at the hem of his shirt and slowly guides her palms up the fabric, refusing to give in to the subtle movement of his torso towards hers. She reaches his collar and her hands clench tightly. In a single rough move she forces his head down, crashing his lips into hers. Again he waits for her to initiate; he smiles against her lips as she begins to move.

He still has the power and it fuels her rage. She harshens the kiss, biting at his lips till she discerns blood and he grants her entry. Metal bitters her taste of him, just like a machine. He raises his hands to hold her but she breaks away suddenly and hits him, closed fisted this time. He accepts it with little reaction and then she’s suddenly on him again. 

She wrenches apart the opening of his fraking ugly shirt, the buttons straining but not actually falling off. Her nails slide slightly through the flesh of his shoulders as she removes the garment and crimson cylon blood rushes to fill the gaps made by her clawing. On impulse she licks her way up the injured shoulder, his neck and finally reaching his mouth she kisses him; the taste of blood still not fully abated.

The cloudy haze of her anger recedes a bit and she feels the beginnings of sexual arousal, of being grounded through another’s body. He’s real to her, more present than ever before and it causes her body to make contact with his, chest pressed against chest, hips aligned. He’s hard and she momentarily forgets her purpose. Her pulse quickens and she gasps across his lips when she feels his arms come up around her. She doesn’t stop him this time.

The need to get closer to him, to own him, is overpowering. Her clothes aren’t thin enough; her very skin isn’t thin enough. She focuses on the physical, on moving this wreck toward its inevitable dire ending.

Maintaining as much feverish contact as possible she removes her own clothes with little regard as to how much she was actually baring to him; not just body but soul as well. He helps by taking off the rest of his own attire, his piercing eyes never leaving her own.

Her hands are not at all gentle on him. She’s demanding and relentless as she runs them across his skin. He’s cool where she’s burning up. She sees his eyes fall shut in reverence, his tilted head a benediction to her severe touch. Light fingers trail down her back tracing the patterns of the stars and the streams.

It’s all too much for her, this difference between them. To her this is punishment as much for him as for herself. To him this is love; she can see it in his face. She wants him to lash out, to be rough, to make it easy for her to categorize him as “evil cylon” and leave it at that. But she knows he won’t, it’s the game they play.

So she takes what she can. She grabs his cock violently, startling him out of his silent reverie. He growls in pain and his eyes flash hard at her, but she doesn’t care and soon he’s lying flat on his back on the carpet in the living room; Kara poised above him. She sinks on to him and it’s too soon for both, the ache a raw wound between them.

Recovering enough, she begins to move, hands flat on his chest to support herself, each slide a reminder of the ultimate goal. She doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him. Instead she lets her vision stray to the room around her and focuses on the feeling of friction between them. Her eyes close naturally and it becomes harder to maintain her driving anger. A soft firm hand from below cups her cheek and her attention returns to Leoben. He looks sad, for her, if that was possible.

“It doesn’t have to be like this Kara.” His eyes are pleading but for what exactly, she doesn’t know.

A sob breaks from her throat and she increases her pace. This is an illness, a disease, a cancer. It infects her core and doesn’t let go. It should have been easy, to take the power back, but it’s not. She wanted him to die by her bloody fists but she can’t muster the strength.

Finally, her hands make their way to his throat and latch on. He simply stares, dreaminess haunts his eyes and she can’t look away. Soft fingers once again trace patterns on her skin, her destiny written on her thighs. Faithfully he accepts what she has to give him.

She sees stars as she breaks above him and she imagines that he sees them too. His last breaths echo out of him and his body stills permanently. Weakness overcomes her and she rests her head on his lifeless chest, hands still cradling his neck.

Her breathing is erratic as she struggles to stand up. Her world is a blur and she feels her body buzz with a strange sense of carnality. She makes her way to the bathroom.

She sees her lips, bright red and swollen, in the mirror before her. The copper tang of his blood singes her tongue. Her pupils are dilated, her hair a tangled halo around her head. Panting unevenly she tries to regain control of her breathing. She looks wild, beyond her recognition. He made her this way; unrecognizable even to herself. She hates him for that. But even more, she hates herself for letting him.

In her waning savagery she knows that no power struggle has been won. He’ll walk through that door tomorrow same as always and he’ll just start again. She feels something fracture inside; her humanity, her will to survive; her will to fight back. It will only be a matter of time before she gives in completely.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Radiohead song


End file.
